


The Echoes of Dasmovia

by AnalystProductions



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Dark Character, Episode Style, F/M, Gen, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I'm Sorry, I'm evil, New Planet, Sorry Not Sorry, Why Did I Write This?, doctor who adventure, generic made-up planets, whouffle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnalystProductions/pseuds/AnalystProductions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking back on this day, every single being in the whole universe would have prayed for them to turn back, to avoid curiosity just this once. To turn a blind eye and run- but that’s never the way of the Doctor. No praying could not stop this event. For it had been written into the very foundations of time. </p><p>And the dangers lurking there were real, too real, as the Doctor was about to discover.</p><p>[Set around 7x09-7x11]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Echoes of Dasmovia

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been sitting on my laptop for MONTHS and I thought I'd share it with the world.
> 
> Don't know where this came from, but I can tell you how it started. It started as a sweet, fluffy Whouffle fic believe it or not! Then came this dark idea to do with Clara and I had to go with it (sorry). 
> 
> I wrote this before 7x13 aired so my idea takes place before as it doesn't fit with events. 
> 
> Anywho, ENJOY!

 

“Clara,” he pants, whizzing down the pathway towards his trusted companion. 

Adrenaline and triumph pulsates through his body. His hearts are beating rapidly, pumping blood through his veins with newfound vivacity. This really had been quite an exciting adventure- a _dangerous_ adventure! Yes, plenty of danger, danger around every corner. It was the kind of adventure he had craved for a long time in a way that he never would quite admit to himself. The whole universe had depended on them to stop the Great Intelligence’s biggest weapon; stop their master plan. A smile touches his eyes as he runs passionately, halting to twirl on his feet in jubilation. _Oh_ -they had done so. They had been _on fire_ this time; Clara was magnificent, as usual. And he could not wait to reach out for her hand, kiss it and tell her that she was, whether she liked it or not. Right now, he’s certain even a scathing remark or taunting flirtatious comments in response to his confession wouldn’t dampen his spirits. Because he feels so _alive!_  

He skids around the corner like a giddy schoolboy, propelling himself forwards with extra momentum and a crazy flail of his arms.

“Clara we did it we-”

He barely has time to configure what exactly is happening around him. She’s a dark silhouette to the spectacular crystal blue star in the sky. Their outlines are visible. Clara wastes no time. She spins around. He is unable to identify the emotion on her face. She lunges for him bravely. Then it hits him. Fear, she looks _scared –_ terrified. Within the space of a second his expression changes from glee to despair but it’s just no good to either of them.

“-What are you _doing?!”_ his voice is full of shock, but Clara’s not listening to him, _as usual._

“-Doctor!”

Suddenly, he’s falling.

Bam.

A hard collision; face scratching irritably against the stone. He doesn’t feel the weight of Clara fall on him though and immediately this concerns him because that means something _unthinkable_ that he can’t think about yet. He _won’t._ She’s fine, oh _god_ she’s fine. His thoughts deteriorate as he struggles to ignore the sharp pain resonating around his throbbing head. He rolls over onto his back breathlessly; he winces, suspecting a series of future bruises. Damn Clara, she really was stronger than she looked.

A flash of light bursts in front of his eyelids violently. Clamping his eyes shut, the Doctor panics. A spectrum of intense colours explodes across his eyelids, pressing strange patterns onto them. It’s all happening too fast. Panic. _What’s_ happening? What _is_ happening? He doesn’t know and that really _terrifies_ him. He’s terrified. Actually terrified. But not for himself.

His eardrums are bursting with a confusing blur of sound. He’s incapable of filtering out what’s important sound and what’s unimportant sound. His heartbeats overpower everything else, pounding through his mind like a constant drumming. _Like the sound of the drums._ It makes it impossible to discern what _really_ is happening.

There was no scream.

Just a vivid light and the sound of some sort of… _no._  No scream. She’s fine, _she’s safe_ she has to be. He hears her moan in surprise at the intensity of it all. His ears clasp onto it, casting other noises away. That’s _enough_ , just to hear that small noise. Desperation. Fear. Hurt. Determinedly, he hauls his aching body back up. The light impairs his vision, stinging his sore eyes. All he sees are giant dots of colours, speckles of what _should_ be and what shouldn’t; pointless shapes. He scrunches his face tightly, eyes blinked shut. Deep breath. Concentrate. Focus. When he opens his eyes, the effect is disorientating to say the least.

As he stumbles, he sees it. He sees it lurking out of the corner of his burning eyes. He dismisses his own groggy state, the fatigue and the bruising. It’s all gone, evapourating at the sight before him. Frantically, he takes out his Sonic with shaking hands. He doesn’t hesitate, not for one _second_ because it’s _Clara._ A green spark erupts in the air around. The creature falls instantaneously- dead.

But this isn’t any consolation to him. Not at all. Stumbling backwards, hand pressed to his temple – _think try to think -_ the Doctor registers what has just happened. And it hits him with a calamitous force that wrecks havoc inside him.

Clara Oswald has just recklessly jumped in front of him, _put her life at risk_ to save him from an inevitable death. Clara Oswald has taken the lethal blow. Clara Oswald has _sacrificed_ her own life for him. No. Not sacrifice. Sacrifice has devastating implications and that couldn’t be true.

It _couldn’t._  

Eyes wide, the Doctor focuses his attention on the woman. Both hearts are thrashing in his chest, body trembling wildly because _no – no – no – no_ this was no supposed to happen, _never_ like this _._

Somehow, she’s still standing upright. There she is. Innocent little Clara, in that navy blue spotted dress; the red bag is draping over her shoulders. For a moment she looks normal, _unbroken_ yet so _breakable_ it’s tragic _._ He half-expects, half-prays for her to shrug her shoulders or shoot him one of her trademark contagious smiles _._ It’s stupid, of course it’s stupid he _knows_ it is- but he can’t help the way he’s clinging onto Hope. He _needs_ it more than ever right now.

He recognises the excruciating expression that is poorly concealed, buried beneath her false composure. It’s the one he’s mastered and used so many times before. This is _not_ a good thing, not at all. She’s hurt, _a lot._ Panic. Dread. Everything is _not_ okay; this is _not_ okay. Feebly, the Doctor extends his hand out towards her. Dejection. He can’t move. Frozen to the bone, rendered immobile. Time courteously stretches these few seconds between them out, until they pass languidly like minutes, hours, _days_. They’re a few metres apart, if that. However, it feels like _miles, worlds._ As time unravels gently around them, their distance is only expanding.

They meet eyes. The glow in those big, beautifully haunting, brown eyes is waning. The silvery starlight accentuates the pallid colour of her skin. Silence. The Doctor holds his gaze, too afraid to blink, to waste these precious moments. _Don’t blink. Don’t even blink. Blink and you’re dead._ The words fill him up. It’s the same level of fear only in a whole new context: a worse one. A soft smile graces her delicate lips. It’s hard to muster. He can tell she’s forcing it, using the last of her energy to reassure _him_. It breaks him. He weakly smiles back. It’s bleak. His feet are firmly rooted in the ground, but this can’t stop his knees buckling or balance wavering. And it does.

In that moment he blinks.

Then comes the devastating moment when Hope escapes from his clutches, leaving him marooned in a nightmare he can’t escape because it’s reality. He watches Hope tear itself from his hands sadistically, scrambling away like a _coward._

Time gradually contracts; out of time, out of Hope. With a slow blink of her eyes, her body gives way. Just for a _second_ their hearts are in sync, their breaths are one; they are _together._

Then it all shatters abysmally.

_CLARA!_

__

Silvery wisps of light radiating from Dasmovia’s closest superstar – Uria – decorate the pathway that trails ahead of their feet. It adds a strange mystic glow to the landscape, accentuating the overcast shadows of vast crumbled structures against the magnificent cerulean sunrise. Or, to be more universally accurately, a starrise because ‘ _yes Clara_ not all planets are lucky enough have their very own sun’.

The city is old, much of it is nothing but ruins now; a mere echo of its resounding legacy. Oh, the Dasmovian’s – their planet was once home to the greatest architectural structures in its galaxy. In fact, there were very few civilisations able to match its expertise and fine craftsmanship (aside from Gallifreyans but then the Doctor _was_ a tad bias). The Doctor studies the rough terrain reflectively. He knew the story; Dasmovia: the abandoned planet. The Dasmovian People left this world many centuries ago, having stumbled upon a population crisis; too many Dasmovian’s, too few resources. This baron landscape got colder and drier every year. Even two hundred years ago, it had become one of the universe’s least hospitable planets. Now, it seemed impossible that it could harbour intelligent, complex life again on a large scale.

Coiled around the eroding stone and cracked monuments are unfamiliar species that could be likened to Planet Earth’s vegetation, only these are far more discrete, their main spectacles blossoming underground. The Doctor’s lips twitch as Clara shoots him one of her incredulous yet adorable looks. Raising her eyebrows, a little puzzled, she automatically darts over to his side to quiz him.

“What do you mean the trees grow _down?”_ she looks down at her feet, trying to imagine the concept.

“I mean what I mean and say what I mean, apart from the times when I just say what I say,” fiddling around with his sonic screwdriver, the Doctor continues, ignoring the odd look his companion gives him. Patiently she waits for a _real_ explanation. “As you can see, the main source of light on Dasmovia is Uria, but it’s not technically a sun. Oh no, it doesn’t behave like a sun at all, its so _fascinating_ Clara, you see it turns out that when you apply the-”

“-This stuff really _excites_ you doesn’t it Doctor - who knew?” Clara teases, studying the Doctor’s giddy expression.

“Oh _hush_ you.” He absently pats her on the head in response with his sonic screwdriver. Nonetheless, he does have the decency to blush when he catches sight of her cheeky countenance, eyebrows wiggling for good measure (he merely jabs her in the arm with the screwdriver, unable to form cohesive words). Clara revels in his reaction.

“Do you want to hear about the Dasmovian Flora Helix or not?” Instantly, his words catch her attention despite the evident exasperation in his voice. Travelling with Clara Oswald made him feel _twice_ as old yet _three_ times younger simultaneously. A paradox; a bit like her. A _lot like her._ Well, not _really_ considering she insists time and time again that she’s her own person. Somehow _paradoxically,_ of course she is. She’s Clara. _Just Clara._ Clara Oswald. Leaning towards her, he smiles.

“Right, well. The Dasmovian surface is too dry for its forest to grow, the only reason our skin isn’t itching obstinately is because the TARDIS has acclimatised our bodies to its atmosphere. The forest has adapted over time, learning to burrow within the ancient caves of Dasmovia, the shape of the caves has forced them to coil, creating the Helix. Now once every two years, this ancient helix bloom and flourishes with all different kinds of rare flowers-”

“- _Oooh_!” Clara exclaims, eyes wide with brazen enthusiasm. “Can we see it?”

The tip of the sonic glows emerald as the Doctor lifts it into the air. A frown collects on his lips as he studies the acquired results. _Ah._

“Wrong year.” He concludes sheepishly; his companion pulls a contorted face at this.

“So, we can travel through thousands of years in any direction to _any_ place but we miss this by _a year?_ ” Evidently, Clara is unfazed to voice her amusement at this. The Doctor mentally scolds himself for allowing her to get away with such cheek, such blatant mockery of his time-travelling skills! As if she’s insinuating _he_ cannot drive his own ship! Attempts to voice his irritation are hopeless, and logic drains from him when he catches her soft lips tugging into an infectious smile.

“Well, we could always stick around.” the Doctor jaunts light-heartedly as they stroll down the ancient cobbled path.

The complex patterns have been weathered down to mere echoes of a once mighty civilisation. Clara feels cautious as she steps on the stone, afraid to trample over centuries old art, and enamoured by the concept of this strange new world. An abandoned planet, actually abandoned; a planet without its people. Her eyebrows crease together, curiosity steering into a new realm briefly. Could planets _feel?_ Would it be sad that the people left? Delicately, she trails her fingers against the stone pillars to her right as they walk, as if to comfort whatever omnipotent presence she has vividly conjured in her head.

Beside her, the Doctor is talking animatedly as he comes to a standstill. She turns her attention back to him. He’s completely consumed in what he’s saying, whirling around back and forth on the spot in that ridiculous, energetic fashion. Her lips tingle with fondness as she listens to him, eyes searching the foreign terrain.

“I’ve always passed Dasmovia but never _really_ noticed it, yet alone explored it. There could be all sorts of things here. It’s the kind of planet you see but you don’t really _see,_ see?”

“Yes, I see it.” She admits with distant inquisitiveness, peering through a gap in one of the disintegrating towers just the right height for her head.

The Doctor shrugs off the ‘it’, literally, assuming Clara is building up to some new kind of sly joke, because so far to his knowledge there isn’t any ‘ _it’_ to describe. Aside from the remains of the Dasmovian Citadel, the planet is an endless stretch of golden stone and red sand, tainted a murky blue against the silvery starlight of Uria. The Doctor goes back to studying the report from his sonic quietly. He’s slightly disappointed by the results. Everything here seems perfectly in order, _normal…_ boring. Boring. Boring. His shoulders slump as he double-checks the readings with a childish frown.

“GI,” Clara’s voice is monotonous as she speaks, attempting to make out the words in the distance. “The Great Intelligence.”

At these words, the Doctor immediately stops what he’s doing. He fumbles towards her rapidly, resorting to leaning over her to peek through the gap in the vast relic. He sees it too, in the middle of the distant ruins, carved into the stone and varnished with elaborate gold. It couldn’t be…but it _is._ The Great Intelligence; Victorian London. Victorian Clara. _The day she died._ Co-incidence. _No such thing._ The universe made a bargain. _For this?_ Stop it. He spares a glance down to Clara nervously, knowing that this will probably be the only chance he has to do so before having to tuck his concerns away when she looks at him.

As if on cue, vibrant splashes of red and blue light up its surrounding area, clearly coming from the newly built hideout- they could call it hideout right? Of course they could, this _screams_ hideout! The lights fade swiftly. After a few more moments of silent observation, his chin resting on the top of Clara’s head, the Doctor pulls back.

“Well, that’s _interesting.”_ He admits. “Looks like somebody has chosen Dasmovia to be their secret hideout. Very clever, not at all predictable.” Pause.  He scrunches his nose. “Okay, well maybe a _bit._ ”

She’s not listening to him anymore, eyes entranced on her discovery. The lights spark up again one more time. The Dasmovian ruins create a majestic barrier around the area, concealing most of it from sight. Clara peers through the stone once more to study what she can make out of the peculiar ‘hideout’. They’d only just _finished_ their last adventure, running for their lives. There were times she thought they genuinely weren’t going to make it. And yet, she can feel the butterflies stirring within her, the adrenaline pumping, the exhilaration; the prospect of another escapade. It’s probably wrong and a little bit worrying, but she can’t deny it. She _enjoys_ this. She’s sure she always will.

Not that she’d ever tell _him_ that.

Turning back to his companion, the Doctor finds his words trail off. They stumble into silence as he watches her fondly. There is a bubbly naïve, atmosphere surrounding her. Despite her wit and bravery, there has always been this undertone of raw, genuine innocence. It follows this Clara – _his_ Clara – around everywhere, enchanting his hearts and warming his soul. Abruptly, without _any_ warning, she spins around. The Doctor quickly discards his softened expression and replaces it with feigned nonchalance. He’s unsure if the quirk of her lips is due to catching him off-guard or pure inquisitiveness regarding this new adventure. It’s the uncertainty and the _mystery_ that both perplexes and propels him.

“What do you think they’re doing?” she says, eyes flickering between the Doctor and the ruins.

The Doctor is fixated by the sight behind her, unable to respond. Something is stirring; he glimpses at the faint red glow protruding from the tip of the structure. It blinks in and out of sequence. Warily, the Doctor saunters closer to where Clara is standing in order to get a better viewpoint.

“I think we’re about to find out.”

Less than a second later, a peculiar noise erupts from the building. It’s an unpleasant mesh of low drones and high squeaks with no middle pitch. The lack of consistency in its frequency is uncomfortable to listen to. Clara slaps her hands over her ears, crinkling her nose and clamping her eyes shut in protest. The Doctor _, just about able_ to withstand the odd sound, lifts his sonic screwdriver and stares blankly at the results he gets (because to his surprise there _are_ none). Whatever this is, it’s a totally new phenomenon, new creature. It _has_ to be if his Sonic is unable to detect it. The unfamiliar sirens wither into silence. Wide-eyed, Clara turns to the Doctor, vigilantly removing her hands from her throbbing ears.

“What _was_ that?” he hears the undercurrent of apprehension in her voice. 

The Doctor finds himself stuck in a predicament, a _rare_ one, because for the first time in give or take a few hundred years he doesn’t have a logical answer, not even a suspicion. There’s not even a hunch in his bones on this one. He realises when he meets her eyes that he doesn’t have even a _clue_. 

Gazing around slowly, the Doctor scans the perimeter of the building. The building sheltered by the Dasmovian ruins is not at all as large as expected, but even a person of average intellect can deduce that powerful and dark technology lurks within its walls. A strange, deep hum resonates from the building, shaking the ground slightly. There’s not a soul in sight, which is peculiar. Aside from the noises that denote machinery and robotics, it is silent. Eerily silent.

“I can’t see a thing!” Clara huffs indignantly from behind the shallow stonewall they’re hidden behind.

Absently, the Doctor spares her a glance before turning his attention back to the base.

“Well then that means you should have gone to Specsavers.” He hears her tut. “ _What?”_

“You don’t even know what that _is;_ do you?” she asks smugly, trying to peek over the wall. To her dismay, the Doctor pushes her pretty head back down behind the stone where he’s certain it’s safe and protected.

“Course I do, technologically advanced specs that preserve and restore vision.” He points a finger at her vibrantly. “they may be _just glasses_ in your day Clara Oswald but just you wait. Just you wait. Another fifty years or so.”

Whilst the Doctor was talking, Clara leans over the wall, studying their surroundings. She grimaces.

“Sonic Binoculars.” She declares. “Do they _exist_ because that’s what I need right now. Sonic binoculars.”

“Sonic binoculars?” The Doctor scoffs, chuckling. “That’s a _ridiculous_ idea-” abruptly he spins so his back is to Clara, eyes wide. “That’s a _brilliant idea!”_ he whispers to himself in excitement. Behind him Clara’s still talking.

“…Oh! Or maybe you could have a sonic boomerang. You know, throw it into the air; it does its thing and then boom. It comes back with data and…” she shrugs. “ _stuff.”_

“Sonic boomerang.” The Doctor mutters to himself, testing the feel of it on his tongue. Titling his head, he nods. “Sonic boomerang could be cool… _is_ cool!” turning to her he grins, unable to restrain his hands as they latch onto her shoulders in enthusiasm. “Clara you really _do_ astound me.” 

“What’s so bad about these creatures then?” Clara asks with interest as they tread upon new soil. She folds her arms over her chest as the Doctor paces back and forth in front of her, clearly distressed. He pauses, looking at her for a moment in bewilderment.

“Bad?” he scoffs, stalking towards her.The small, petite woman before him resembles a naïve young girl with accentuated anime-like eyes, so _unaware_ of what’s going on, oblivious to it all.

“Oh no, _no_ Clara these creatures aren’t bad,” the word bad was full of derision; it was a poor choice after all, not at all encompassing what they were capable of.

“They are _truly_ dangerous.”

Raising her eyebrows, Clara blinks in surprise. The reaction was not one he anticipated, but he’d found with Clara, things were always unpredictable. He waits for an explanation patiently, mainly due to curiosity, unable to pinpoint the emotion surfacing beneath her skin.

“Well that doesn’t _normally_ put you off.” She shrugs honestly, a smile dusting her lips. “So what is it then?” The Doctor instantly feels his posture tense. Raising a finger she widens her eyes. “And _don’t_ even think about lying to me because I _deserve_ to know.”

Resignedly, the Doctor sighs, scratching the back of his neck. Nothing escapes Clara, she’s just so attentive and _inquisitive._ She was a very clever human being, always wanting to test and stretch her mind. Gazing over to her, he studies her innocent expression.

“These creatures, they’re _different._ ” His hands flap around him in an attempt to accentuate his words. Pause. His eyes wander elsewhere for a moment. “Born from the Great Intelligence.” His words pick up pace and ferocity. “They have been growing slowly, they have been in production for the past _thousands_ of years all with one sole purpose.” Meeting her eyes again, he grimaces. “To eradicate _me._ ”

For a split second there is silence, in which they both are simply examining each other’s eyes. The Doctor feels the fear inside him, he _fears_ that she is about to ask him a terrible question: why. Abruptly, she averts her eyes, a coy yet amusing look is painted onto her porcelain face.

“Since this seems to be a bit out of your depth.” Her eyes bulge comically as she shuffles around the perplexed Doctor. “I suppose we better get back into the TARDIS and scram to someplace else then.” He sees it in her eyes, the mischievous twinkle as she extends her arm to him; a challenge.

“Yes,” he agrees, linking arms with her. “I suppose we should.”

“But,” Clara accents the ‘t’ for good measure. “We’re not going to.” At these words, the Doctor laughs heartily.

“Abso _lutely_ not!” 

“Brilliant.”  She chimes with a broad smile, gazing out at the unfamiliar landscape before them. 

“I thought so.” The Doctor adjusts his bowtie proudly.

“Don’t go looking all proud of yourself,” she quickly flickers her gaze from his head to toes, landing back on his face. “It was _my_ idea.”

“It was my idea _first.”_ He replies with a hint of a smile and a chuckle in his tone, because well technically it was, all those times before.

“Playing that game now are we?” Clara snaps back, never backing down as usual. The Doctor feigns annoyance, leaning towards her with a scowl.

“Oh _shut-up_ Clara Oswald!”

Her speedy reply is full of wit.

“ _Make me_ spaceman.”

The Doctor’s cheeks flush slightly, at a loss at what to say to that. Clara’s being _Clara_ again, tormenting him, teasing him with those one-liners that – embarrassingly- completely fluster him.

“Oi! Y-“ he began, huffing when she appeared to be grinning animatedly.

“ _Come on!”_ he settles for, dragging her forwards by the hand into a run.

“Doctor,” Clara began nervously, watching as the Doctor abruptly came to a standstill, eyes wide and face vacant. When he appears to make no response, she bounces forwards promptly. Her hair swings behind her, before pooling around her face. It takes a few seconds for him to acknowledge her presence and meet her eyes. Even then, it’s clear something is not right. His eyes are distant, clearly focused on something else. Tentatively, Clara reaches out in concern. She _knows_ this look. She’s seen him wear it twice at the most, but this time it’s magnified a hundred times. This worries her to say the least.

“What’s wrong?”

“I never _thought…_ ” his voice is muffled as if speaking to himself. Turning away from his companion, the Doctor frowns. “Oh dear.”

“-Doctor!” Clara’s voice is more insistent this time; the anxiety inside of her threatens to burst and exposes itself.

If the Doctor was less troubled, she’s certain he’d tease her about this all the way back to the TARDIS. Perhaps she’d retaliate, play the game they followed so well. After months travelling together, it had become a familiar routine. Right now, however, it’s clear that whatever this is _is_ serious; no times for snide remarks, mocking smirks or childish – yet charming - bickering. The Doctor trails his hands down his face in distress. As he does, the flesh beneath his palms wilts like that of a grotesque space zombie – space zombies are real, space zombies are _cool –_ before moulding swiftly back into place. He can _feel_ the air around crease with tension. He hears Clara inhale a breath behind him, about to continue her restless battalion of persistence until he answers. 

“Regeneration.” One word, simple enough (he hopes).

Narrowing her eyes, Clara tilts her head in bewilderment.

“What?”

The Doctor sighs. Or _not_ simple enough _._ Spinning around, movements frantic and jittery he parades around the room. Despite the retraced energy in his steps, it is palpable that he is totally absorbed with his latest dark revelation. Whatever is plaguing his mind, there’s still enough space inside to revel in the chance to exhibit his intellect. Clara recognises the twinkle in his eyes straight away, pursing her lips together in disapproval.

“Okay, crash course in less than a minute. Erm, where to start…I cant go into _too_ much detail without rattling your little brain-” he gently taps her head in a way too patronising for Clara’s liking.

“-Hey!-”

“-Sorry,” he sheepishly mutters before returning to his rambling. “ _Anyway,_ the Timelords had an ability to renew their bodies, rebuild themselves if they were injured or hurt, kind of like a way to cheat death if you will.”

Befuddled, Clara studies the Doctor as if she’s established that he’s an alien for the first time.

“Re _grow_ yourself? So if you lost an arm and it bled you to death you’d just…” she prods his arm intrusively, not sure what she’s expecting to happen. “Grow it back?”

“Yes!” The Doctor exclaims before processing her words, face dramatically changing to one of dismay as they sink in. Clara Oswald was _clever;_ he was a little disappointed she wasn’t following. “ _No._ Bit more complex, the change is physical, psychological, a new face. Come _on_ Miss Oswald,” scoffing he nudges her lightly. “No longer top of the class I’m afraid.”

Raising her eyebrows, she folds her arms across her chest.

“ _You’re_ not explaining it very well.”

“Common misconception.” He admits, unfazed by her insult. He enjoys this, this momentary distraction from the void that is slowly consuming him. It spurs him to carry on for a little longer. “But I think you’ll find you’re just not listening very well.”

“I’m a _great_ listener,” She interjects predictably, falling for the bait. “All those hours of listening to Angie and her boy troubles have done me good you know.”

Her eyes soften as she spares a moments thought for the two special children in her life. The Doctor catches sight of her pensive gaze, offering a cautious smile that he refuses to let flourish. Sometimes he’s terrified that she’ll wake up one day and demand to go home. Sometimes he’s terrified that she will lose interest and pursue new horizons without him. He knows it’s irrational, highly unlikely, because who would ever _willingly_ give up exploring the entire continuum of time and space?

That question terrifies him more; _willingly_ being the key word in that sentence. It has implications, _terrible_ ones. The playful aura seeps out of their bodies and into the air. Stumbling back into the present, Clara pursues their previous conversation as if nothing had transpired in between.

“So then, you…become someone _else?”_ she ventures, vexed by this whole concept.

“No, I’m still me, I’m many _mes._ ” _Just like there are many yous –_ The Doctor muses to himself. “These creatures, I believe, can _truly_ kill me. Not just me but my whole being.” Pause. “They have tempered with the Untempered Schism-”

“-I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about,” she admitted cheerfully. “But even _I_ know that that sounds like a paradox.”

“-It’s a gap,” The Doctor said, almost talking over her words enthusiastically. “a gap in the fabric of reality from which can be seen the entire vortex. Timelords w- _they_ believed that our exposure to it aided the regeneration process…”

“My question is, how?”

“How?” Rolling his eyes, the Doctor strides over to the woman. “It’d take me _weeks_ to just explain the basic principles of it Clara-”

“-No I mean _how_ have they found a way to make you,” she pauses, narrowing her eyes as if studying him. “a _ll_ of you…die?”

“Haven’t the faintest, good question.” 

“You’re _so_ clever, no-” amused, the Doctor lifts a finger, correcting himself rather dramatically. “Not clever, _intelligent_.” he gazes around the elaborate technological room he and the other being were standing in. Instantly, his opponent notices the sardonic tone to his voice and as a precaution reaches for his weapon.

“The Great Intelligence,” The Doctor clasps his hands together in delight. “ _So_ intelligent that you’ve overlooked the simplest thing, the most _painfully_ obvious part of this whole equation.”

The Doctor was baiting the man - that was for certain. They asked anyway, because no risks could be taken, especially with _him._

“And what would that be?” their voice is riddled with petulance. 

Retrieving his sonic screwdriver from his pocket, the Doctor flips it in the air jauntily before catching it expertly with a grin.

“ _I’m_ the Doctor!”

_CLARA!_

She collapses to the ground. Instinct takes over and the Doctor rushes forwards, tripping over his own feet. They land clumsily, tangled. He cradles her cold body in his arms, not caring much for his own comfort on the ground. _Nothing_ matters right now, nothing but her. _Sh, it’s okay, it’s okay I’ve got you._ One hand desperately cups her neck for a pulse, for _anything._ No, no no, _Clara,_ Clara come on. He hears his own voice ringing above them in the air. It’s so uninspiring, so full of everything he _really_ doesn’t need to hear right now, especially from himself. He finds a pulse; it’s _far_ too slow for a human being.

It’s okay.

It’s _not_ okay.

I’ve got you. I’ve got you.

_Too late._

Clara, why had she believed that _this_ was the right thing to do? Displaying such devotion and loyalty could be done in so many other ways. This was _ridiculous._ No, no, no. _Too late._ He’d let her down twice. He can’t fail her again. He just _can’t._ The emotions stirring within him are overpowering. Gods, if he could take her place he would. She gasps. Abandoning his dark thoughts, he hovers over her. Her eyelids move. She’s alive; she’s _still_ alive. It takes a second too long for him to find his voice when her eyes flutter again.

“Clara.” He nudges her soothingly into a better breathing position. At first her eyes are vacant and chaotic. It takes an alarming amount of time for them to fully open and reside on his face again. Fondness is all he can find within them. The relieved smile is wiped off his face, replaced with torment. She’s on the edge. He can feel it. He doesn’t want to, but he can. All he can do is treasure what transpires between them now.

“Always…getting yourself into trouble aren’t you?” she whispers almost enigmatically in that small but wonderfully captivating voice of hers. _Her_ voice, not Oswin’s, not Victorian Clara’s, _this_ Clara’s – his Clara _._ His Clara who valiantly jumped in front of an attack specifically tailored to _kill him._ The most traumatising thing about _all_ of this is that it doesn’t sound like her at all. Her voice barely carries, barely rings out across the landscape. She notices the lack of conviction in her own voice also, a strangled sound escaping her lips.

“Y-you shouldn’t have done that.” The Doctor stutters.

He’s angry at first, by the gods, he is _angry. Stupid_ , little earth girl. Stupid Clara taking the hit for him. How _dare_ she! He has lived for almost a thousand years, that’s _more than_ enough life; some would say too much. She has barely encountered two decades of life, _two decades._ It’s not enough; it’s not _fair._ He glares down at her, but it doesn’t last long. It’s difficult to articulate himself as she falls limp into his chest. Sighing, the Doctor hears his own voice break under the strain.

“Y-you, _you-”_

“-saved you.” Clara finishes, snatching air to support her weakening body.

He supposes if she weren’t dying she’d be awfully smug about this. He would have let her gloat, just this once. She’s so brave, always has been. _Brave heart Clara._ She came back for him at the Rings of Akhaten. She had parted with the most important leaf in _human history_ to save the planet. Clara had offered herself up to Skaldak in hope of negotiation. Leaping into the TARDIS, she’d crashed into a pocket universe _twice_ to rescue him. More than that; she had melted the sliver of ice in his heart. Clara had tugged him away from dark days of solitude and bitterness. Clara had shown him a purpose for living, travelling.

“You already did that a _long_ time ago.” He whispered, melancholy drenching his entirety intertwined with a profound cheer.

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._

The alarm interjects. It’s a blaring, harsh noise; the same note screeching through the ruins again and again. It’s a reminder of what dangers still remained in the aftermath of this bitter adventure. The Doctor scans the area briefly, ensuring that no more harm can come to her, before darting his head back to Clara seriously. Clara cherishes this, right now. He’s looking at her as if she’s the only person in the entire universe that matters to him; she can see that she is truly _special._ Focusing on his face is keeping her awake, keeping her from acknowledging the excruciating effects of the beam. There’s a twinkle in her eyes, a slight tug of her lips as she listens to the alarm with a poignant kind of serenity.

“-They’re playing our song, dear.”

At these words a crippled laugh blunders out of the Doctor’s mouth. The fond smile on his face instigates the memories and connotations these words have for them.

_Care to do the corridor quickstep?_

A miniscule surge of happiness swells inside him, reaching every inch of him. It dies quickly as she turns to him with the one thing he really doesn’t want to ever see again from anyone, especially her; _acceptance._

“The universe needs you.”

That’s the worst part.

An unpleasant tremor spreads through him, his throat choked with oncoming tears. That would _always_ be the worst part. Acceptance. _Proof_ that he has failed, that he has completely destroyed them _all._ He recalls the last acceptance seared onto his soul, Amelia Pond’s choice to leave him, _acceptance_ that this was the end of their time together. Oswin Oswald’s acceptance that whilst – yes – she may _well_ be a human trapped inside a Dalek she was going to die in the explosion. Clara Oswin Oswald’s acceptance as the life slowly trickled out of her body, TARDIS key thrust into her palm, that the Doctor saving the world was enough of an achievement. _I don’t know why, I only know who._ The woman was truly capable of accepting her own demise, and yet _still_ putting him first. As if she meant nothing, as if she was _nothing._

… _are you going to save this one?_ Her words- her words from once upon a time. They echo inside him. The Doctor caresses the back of her head with his hands to stop her from succumbing to something he simply cannot stop. Fiercely he locks their eyes together.

“The universe may well _need me,_ ” he sneers darkly; the universe would have to make-do without him. It has done so before.Bitterness morphs into anguish. _“_ But _I_ – I need you.”

“Bit late for all that isn’t it chin boy?” she attempts to joke once more in that cheeky, flirtatious voice; it’s only an echo of what it had been.

Smoothing a hand through her hair gently, he kisses her forehead with unmeasured affection. The Doctor doesn’t find her joke funny, abruptly pulling her into a tighter embrace. He finds it disturbing; this acceptance. She is so calm, so collected and content here in his arms. Clasping his eyes shut he chants the same words over again.

“You’ll be alright. You’ll be alright.”

She’ll be all right; she _always_ is okay. Clara Oswin Oswald. She _will_ be just fine. The woman twice dead, possibly _thrice_ dead – no stop it. Just _stop it._ This Clara isn’t the previous Clara or the one preceding that. They were all different and they were all the _same._ A mystery; a glitch in the universe. Chaos. There was nothing he could do now. The TARDIS is out of reach, burrowed up over the mountains on the horizon. It’s defeatist of him, to behave like this. But there’s something in his gut, a strong impulse of misery weighing him down. Clara is dying. She is slipping through his fingers, her delicate body losing life. She has minutes, maybe even as little as three. To move her now may reduce minutes to mere seconds. 

“Don’t lie to me Doctor, not now.”

Swallowing-hard, the Doctor hisses out a deep breath through his gritted teeth. The words sting; they stir the torrents of water in his eyes. What she’s asked is a simple request. One he should respect. _Don’t lie to me. Don’t lie._ Of course it’s not simple at all, because he’s not lying to her, he’s lying to _himself._ He can’t bear the truth, the reality crashing down upon him. It’s too much. Time is going too fast and paradoxically these moments sweep out forever across the spectrum itself.

Somewhere out there, in the cascades of time and space, he’s certain that they’re laughing, giddy after their latest escapade. Perhaps they’re running, running out of time, running for their lives. Or maybe they’re sitting tranquilly upon the ebony beach of Haienaker, her head on his shoulder as they quietly study the sky above. He remembers that magical, enchanting evening. They picked out the peculiar shapes the stars made. It had all been fun and games until Clara started talking about Soufflés, and the memories of past Clara rushed through him. 

Now here they were, on a derelict, harsh terrain. Here they were, adventure completed, past, present and future salvaged. Clara is wrapped in his arms protectively, her life draining away. Her head falls back to rest on his shoulder, eyes wearily gazing up at him. He strokes her hair soothingly with trembling hands, telling himself to at least _try_ and mask the turmoil hammering through his entirety. They stay like this for a while, their dissonant song blaring over their heads in a constant droning rhythm. Her short, shallow breaths are evened out by his long pensive ones. Her slow heartbeat creates a peculiar tempo against his two sprinting hearts. For a moment, they are at peace.

Then something changes.

Clara gasps, crying out in pain.

“Doctor!” she yells desperately, and the Doctor determinedly grabs her face with his hands and presses his forehead against hers. 

“Clara, _Clara_ look at me, Clara focus on me.” He whispers frenetically with an insistence that maintains her diminishing consciousness. “That’s it, _good._ Good. _”_

She’s losing concentration, eyes rolling to the back of her head. Her body droops, her breath softer and shorter. This is it. He _knows_ this is it. But it can’t be because she hasn’t said it yet; she hasn’t said _those words._ Those crucial words. Desperation and urgency take over him all at once. He dives in dramatically, and plants a raring, avid kiss to her lips. She is too weak to respond, but the odd noise she emits resembles faint laughter. Lingering over her mouth, the Doctor presses one final chaste kiss to her lips. In this tender moment, all seems serene. There is an elusive smile embedded on her face. Hastily, he scrutinises her expression, praying she will communicate with him somehow.

“Come _on_ Clara.” He pleads. “ _Please._ ”

Nothing.

“Please.”

Silence.

“Run you clever boy,” he prompts, annunciating each word with a sharp bite, teeth gritted and eyes blazing.

He feels his façade break down when the words don’t come. Silence. She appears to be fading further and further away, out of the realms of this world and into another. He can’t reach her; he can’t keep her breathing. He can’t save her. Like so many he’s failed. Clara Oswin Oswald; he’s watched her die three times. He’s been _responsible_ for her life and he’s _lost her_ three times.

No.

He’s lost three Clara’s. This Clara, _his_ Clara. She’s irreplaceable.

She’s…

She was in his care. Swallowing-hard, he pulls back and tries again. This _can’t be_ how this story ends, this entrancing and magical tale that’s only just begun to unfold within his hearts. Blinking back tears as they cascade down his face, he hisses the words.  

“Run you clever boy and reme-” his words are overpowered by the sorrow and torment that fill him. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead there is a raw, foreign sound that is ripped from his throat. No, no _no. Clara._ Softly, he trails one of his fingers down her face. Over her eyebrows to the smooth creases of her eyelids, down to her elegant pixie nose and faltering on her rosy, full lips. Cold to the touch. She seems so tranquil here, as if she’s resting in his arms.

Any moment now she could prop open one eye playfully (“My, _my,_ maybe I was mistaken, I should call it the SnuggleBox”) or gaze up at him (“Oh my stars, this is beautiful Doctor”). But she doesn’t. They’re simply admiring Uria and her enchanting moons, the stars splashed out across the velvet sky in her final moments.

But they’re not doing that either. He’s crouched over her lifeless body splayed out on the ground; he’s unleashing hundreds of years of loss and turmoil. This is the final blade, the cruel serrated knife that came unexpectedly and thrust itself deep into both his hearts.

This is the final blow; the realisation that perhaps what so may had tried and failed to do has to be attempted again- and this time it _has_ to _succeed._

He’s dangerous.

He’s a monster.

He has to die.

__

**Author's Note:**

> I don't normally write like this - the whole style I've written in a bit of an experiment so if it didn't work for you: I'm sorry.
> 
> If it did work for you: then I'm glad and I might try something like this again. 
> 
> Please excuse me if there are some inaccuracies in both the writing and the actual "facts". I tried my best to make things accurate & make things as close to fact as poss, but you know, I'm only human *drum roll* yep. I know that wasn't even worthy of a drum roll.
> 
> Would love to know your thoughts!


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